My taxi driver senses are tingling. No, seriously. To be a taxi driver, you’ve got to have good eyes, good ears – maybe even nose – to seek out those potential customers. So, it doesn’t really matter that I was snoozing on my pal’s couch (wow, this cushion. is. heaven.), my ears hear it. And I’m promptly awake. I hear padded boots trodding in the hallway.
So, normally this wouldn’t bother me. One, it’s not my house. Two, padded boots don’t usually mean anything. But. My pal’s a pretty meticulous guy. He’s warned me when he’s got guests coming over (thank god, I like hanging out with the guy, but he hangs out with everyone else and it’s pretty awkward). Strike one. My pal isn’t the boots kind of guy, more like the ridiculously-expensive-and-nice-Air-Jordans kinda guy. Strike two. I smell booze. Strike three. Time to get out of here.
Initiating protocol for dealing with potentially violent drunk clients/angry gamblers/rowdy gang members – find something to knock them out first. Fairly used to drunken violence back at home, but Carillon Point is really something – I’m fine with gang warfare, but not when the gangs are basically both halves of town. The entire freaking town.
Paranoid, yes. Gambling is less fun with violent drunkards and drunk violentards. Is that a word? Anyways, back to the task at hand, I think I hear subject drunk ambling towards the kitchen (damn, that’s kind of embarrassing I still can’t find my way to my specific guest room in this mansion but I know the fastest route to the ice cream in the fridge), so I think… I’ll slink my way to the equipment locker he’s keeping near that one restroom near that potted plant that’s to the left of the eagle statue on top of the stair-pillar thing that’s on the floor with the red carpets and the portrait of Babe Ruth. Oh boy. Time to haul ass. And pick up a slugger. Or maybe he has a hockey stick? Oh who am I kidding, of course he has a hockey stick. Yeah. Sounds like the drunkard’s found the fridge, I think I hear that Pepsi can I was storing in there being opened (damn you, bastard!)… Ah, here. Unlock, open… holy crap!
Oh man, there’s no way that guy didn’t hear all this junk falling on top of me. But I’ve got a hockey stick now. Shoot, I think I hear him running upstairs now. Quick, quick, to the… pillar yes. Thank god for ridiculously huge and unneeded pillars from Greece. Or Rome. Whatever, they’re ridiculous.
Face. FACE I DO NOT RECOGNIZE. MEET HOCKEY STICK.
It’s been a while since I’ve visited my son. Damn boy’s so rebellious – definitely inherited that from his stupid mother. The town would look up to me if he stopped being an ungrateful ingrate and supported dear old dad. Or even BOTHERED to confirm that I am his father, the little… Ohh…
I’ve got a mind to pick with the brat, damn advisory council wants him to be appointed sheriff! Ridiculous! Outrageous! Completely out of the question, you senile lunatic sycophantic old men! Oh, I know what you’re trying to do here, Jackson. Oh, I know you hate my guts. And I know that you know that I know that you know that I hate your guts too. Feeling is mutual, you blind, decrepit old man.
But. First, there’s a beating to give a certain ingrate. I retire early for the day, and don’t you dare look at me like that, you jackal, I’m your goddamn superior! I slap the stupid brat, I know what he’s thinking. You think I’m not aware of your hate, boy? For Christ’s sake, you all are ungrateful, incompetent, snarky little… arghhhh, I don’t even care any more. I grab a bottle of booze for on-the-go, flip the bartender off (you’re lucky I still come to your damn bar or I don’t just run you out or something, bastard – oh, and screw no drinking/driving, I ain’t gonna sue myself), and make my way across town in my little red Chevrolet. This old baby’s run me for several years, better than all of those shiny, fancy-pancy new cars that youngsters use nowadays to polish their own asses. Stupid brat. And his mansion, what the hell does that kid have between his ears, mush? Who the hell raised this kid? Certainly can’t have been me, that’s for sure.
Spare key, spare keys, there. Damn brat, where’d he get all the money to afford this? And is he even here? I have half a mind to go hunt him down and kick his ass from here to… you know what, I’m going to find his kitchen and grab a bite.
Huh. That’s weird, the kid’s never prepared Pepsi for me before. Maybe he’s got some hope left for him after all. And is that… wait. What was that clanging? Sounds like it’s from upstairs…
Huh. Nothing here.
Nothing here, either.
Hmm… What the…!
Yeah... Did not enjoy Kincaid's style very much, but the perspective stuff is fine with me. I think third-omniscient is the only perspective I haven't written in yet XD
i love the second perspective! he's so funny. also, the violent drunkards and drunk violentards--that part was AWESOME. :)
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